Chasing the Clouds
by PsychoIdiotLady
Summary: I'm a ghost - so I should be in heaven, right? Not hitchhiking in the world's dumbest monkey's mind. Rated T for language. By Author 1! Discontinued unless reviews are positive.
1. Chapter 1

_**CHASING THE CLOUDS**_

**By: A1**

**Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own Saiyuki, Harry Potter, or Phineas and Ferb (seriously, do I LOOK like Kazuya Minekura? Or JK Rowling? Or Dan Povenmire?)**

**Note: This is a gift fic of sorts to our very first reviewer, NeonPink2011.**

**A/N: You all probably (if you put this on Story Alert) got an email saying there was a new chapter. Unfortunately, no. A reviewer pointed out that this was rather hastily written, and, once going back over it, I realized said reviewer was telling the truth, and immediately went back to edit it. So, thank you anonymous reviewer! **

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Death is really nothing I expected. For one, there weren't any huggable, adorable fluffy little bunnies hopping around a beautiful meadow. The sun was not shining (it was raining outside) and there most certainly weren't any flowers. Even more disappointing, there wasn't any cake.

No, death was set in a long, marble hallway with some windows that showed us that it was raining outside. A red rug extended throughout the hallway, a sort of runway where the line of ghosts stood. Next to them were those rope things you see at movie premieres or something and at the end, apparently, there were clerks behind a desk, sort of like secretaries. I wouldn't know, though, because the line was way too frickin' long. Gossip passed from ghost to ghost, like a really, _really _long game of Telephone. Apparently, the guy who was waiting his turn to be seen died about fourteen years ago. Sort of sad, seeing as he never got to see the arrival of a new millennia - I could remember the screaming and yelling when the clock turned to midnight.

It also made me apprehensive. The guy up front had waited _fourteen damn years _before he was at the desk. Who knew how long it would take for me to get to that stupid desk?

Suddenly, a hand tugged on my shirt, and I looked down into a pair of brown eyes, welling up with tears and I glared at the small amount of snot he had left - why hadn't the person been taught manners?

"Have you seen my mommy?" The boy in front of me was really little, like, toddler little. Which was disgusting because he was wiping snot on his shirt and drooling a bit.

But, despite the grossness of it, you couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He looked so lost, asking for his mom. He couldn't go wandering off - the kindly old grandma in front of him informed us newbies (I was a newbie for about two seconds. About thirty new ones appeared within the next hour. Seriously, how many people die a day?) that the ropes on either side of us were like Tasers. They would zap you back, which was kind of stupid, seeing as if you were zapped back, you would hit the other one, knocked forward, zapped back, and on and on and on. And, luckily, before the kid could test that theory, the grandma had gently took his hand and started talking about her own grandchildren, ignoring his snot hands.

I never, _ever_ want to be a grandma.

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I drummed my fingers impatiently on the mahogany desk - Sammy (the toddler) was already passing through the doorway behind the desks, twisting his shirt nervously.

"You'll be fine," I called after him, and he turned around to flash me a smile. But this one, like many of the others since Granny had died, was forced, the corners of the mouth trembling. His red shirt hung limply off of him - he now looked to be about ten years old, so the security guards had given him a new shirt. And, now that he'd grown out of his snot face habits, I'd grown a bit - _only _a teensy, weensy bit - fond of the kid.

But only a bit. I still hate kids.

"I'll see you on the other side?" he called tremulously, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. He'd been asking that question ever since Granny had died that night after we caught a glimpse of the Desks.

Unfortunately, since I had grown a _bit _(a BIT) fond of the kid, I did not laugh at him and tell him to piss off.

Instead, I nodded impatiently, waving at him to go, and once he had entered the Room, I turned my attention to the clerk.

My first thought was that he was a pansy - thin and bony, his pants were crisply pressed, and his white shirt seemed to be made of silk. His hair was styled immaculately to impress upon the image that he was "cool". Only it backfired - it gave the impression that he was desperately looking for someone to fuck.

Bored, he looked up at me through his eyelashes - what the hell? What kind of guy did that?

"Your name?" His voice seemed to ooze away from his mouth, instead of a buttery, smooth sound I bet he had been going for. For some reason, however, it did not create the urge to laugh at him, like many of the ghosts behind me did. Instead, it seemed like he'd set off a fuse. Not good.

"Delilah McAllen," I told him shortly.

"Year you died?"

"Two thousand twelve."

"Age?"

Age . . . age was a funny thing in death. We were ghosts - we aged slowly. I had died at fourteen, and, now, twenty years later, instead of looking thirty-four, I looked to be sixteen or something. The rule went, the younger you died, the slower you seemed to age, or something like that.

Seriously, what to say, though? Sixteen? Thirty-four? Three hundred twenty-seven?

"Thirty-four."

The guy jotted something down, then sat back.

"Delilah McAllen, they are ready to see you."

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"Delilah McAllen, please step forward." The voice echoed off the pristine, marble white walls that were so clean I could literally see my reflection in it. God, my hair looked a mess. When was the last time I'd cut it?

A guy cleared his throat loudly.

I ignored him.

"Delilah McAllen, PLEASE STEP FORWARD." Damn. I couldn't ignore him anymore, and, reluctantly, I turned my attention to the judges.

In front of me was a huge, mahogany desk, literally ten feet high and twelve feet long, seating six . . things. They looked kind of liked Death Eaters, from _Harry Potter. _Only, the masks were golden and their black robes were more like judges' robes. And they were fat. And I'm pretty sure they didn't go around waving wands at Muggles.

Suddenly, the booming voice jerked me out of my thoughts.

"Delilah McAllen!" it shouted, and I resisted the urge to scream and run behind one of the golden pillars holding the brightly lit room up.

"You do not have enough credits to enter Heaven!" it bellowed the announcement like some commercial guy - seriously, what was up with the announcer voice?

"As is such, you will act as a guide to a young, confused soul! Like a baby or something," the guy muttered at the end.

My eye twitched. Ba . . . by? Confused . . . soul?

"WHAT?" I exploded.

The judges watched me through their Death Eater masks, cold and unfeeling while I ranted on. One, the biggest, fattest one suddenly raised a walking stick.

"Begone!" he ordered.

"SHUT UP, FATSO!" I shrieked.

Today, unfortunately, was a day for 'unfortunates', because, unfortunately, 'Begone' turned out to be a spell of some sorts.

I could tell by the big, black hole that opened beneath my feet and sucked me in like sniffly kid with a cold.

The black hole, was, indeed a black hole of some sorts - so fast I could hardly manage an insult, because, unfortunately, my lips were flapping around (sort of like in those cartoons. Like in _Phineas and Ferb._)

Fortunately, however, I managed to finally get out an insult.

"YOU SHITTY, PLUMP CHICKENS!"

"Chicken? Is that a good food?" an unfamiliar voice asked, and I whirled around. _Wha? _

"I'm Goku," the person continued. "What's your name?" Curious golden eyes bored into my own brown ones.

_Oh shit._

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	2. Chapter 2

Three days had passed, and I still hadn't spoken to Goku.

Three days had passed, and I hadn't even _looked _at Goku.

Three days had passed, and I hadn't strayed out of my hiding spot in the back of the cave.

Three days had passed, and I was the single most bored person on the planet.

Now, you're probably wondering, 'Hey, you're a ghost! Why don't you just fly out?' And yes, that had been my original plan. Unfortunately, I wasn't the first to try to abandon Spiritual Babysitting Duty – the chicken council had somehow tied a rope to my wrist and attached the other end to Goku's wrist.

The rope, upon inspection, was much like the Taser ropes that kept us ghosts in line for judgment. The only difference was this rope was transparent, thinner, and an ugly mud color. Blegh.

And so, unable to fly out of the cave to torment Koushu-bitch or Creepo Nii, I had done what I did to all things I disliked: I'd ignored Goku.

Needless to say, I was a very bad cellmate.

Wait . . .

Don't tell me you were _expecting _me to do that fanfiction crap. Do _not _tell me you were expecting me to do that fanfiction crap.

. . . you were?

Okay, let's get something straight: I. HATE. Kids. Goku is a five hundred year old who acts like a five year old. And interracial relationships never work out. Goku = alive. Me = dead. A ghost. Transparent.

So no, I'm not going to do the fanfiction crap where some beautiful girl becomes Goku's mother figure then starts making out with him. (Seriously, who makes out with their mother figure? That's just wrong.)

And for all you fangirls back there shouting at me to "take away all of Goku's pain" – Goku. Will. Be. Fine. He meets Sanzo, remember? The trigger happy monk who kicks ass? The dude who becomes a very, very, very bad father figure?

Well, okay. Sanzo isn't _that _great. All he does is kill people and threaten to kill more people. And kick demon ass. And shoot a bunch of people with unerring aim.

. . . Actually, that's pretty awesome.

But I digress.

**Line Break Line Break Line Break**

I scratched another tally line in the rock wall.

Five days.

Five days.

Five days.

Day Five.

The Fifth Day in Hell.

Five. Freaking. Days.

My eye twitched.

Five days. Doing nothing.

I exploded.

"I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!" I yanked hard on the rope.

"Lemme go, lemme go, LEMME GO!"

The rope shocked me.

I passed out.

**Line Break Line Break Line Break**

Someone was tugging on the rope.

"Get up."

"Five minuss," I slurred.

"Get up!" The person was more insistent this time.

"No," I grumped back.

"Just drag whoever's coming with you," another person snapped irritably.

The next thing I knew, I was getting a Spiritual Butt Burn.


End file.
